Unrequited
by Sunruner
Summary: Tumblr giftfic for Pochi. Sometimes South Italy has moods, and both he and the people around him know that there's really only one way to snap him out of it. Centuries of fighting and betrayal should have beaten this out of him by now, but there's always been that chance, the hope that, maybe, this time things will work out differently between them. Romacest. Nyotalia. Selfcest.
1. Prologue

**Trail of the Angels.**

**Gift-fic for Pochiownsakitchen on Tumblr. She was telling me how she never sees properly done unrequited fics for pairings so I... I regret the challenge.**

* * *

_**Unrequited**_

Prologue

Sometimes, Romano has moods.

Usually his mood is relaxed, almost dismissive: if it's not coming in direct contact with him then he probably won't deal with it. It's why he's so bad about menial chores like sweeping and laundry, and part of why Veneziano has once or twice considered borrowing from Germany and writing up a schedule for household chores and when they need to be done. But then he remembers that he should probably go dust the china cabinet, and reminds himself why he doesn't want a schedule.

Romano's other common mood is grumpy, because seeing people who do better than him usually puts him on the defensive. It makes him retreat and want to put distance between the good and the bad. North Italy gets this treatment a lot, and to be honest sometimes he triggers it on purpose: especially over the last few (hundred) years.

But Romano can also be really cheerful when things are going well. He doesn't need much of a reason to throw a party or invite guests for dancing and drinks. He's happiest when he knows he's going to have a full table, so when meetings and conferences are in Rome he's usually busy for weeks making sure everything is set to go perfectly while Veneziano tries to remember what the business is actually about.

He's not terrible to live with. He's honest because he can't lie and he learned a long time ago not to bother trying to get better at it. South's a little blunt some times, but so is North. He tends to leave Rome for weeks at a time and head south to his cities and countrysides, and when he vanishes he's impossible to get hold of: but North does the same thing and is equally bad about reading e-mails or returning calls when he's in Venice.

They work well with each other even if nothing ever ends up getting done. They understand each other, and that alone makes getting along a lot easier.

Which is why when Romano gets into one of his moods, Veneziano always knows. And that's why he feels sort of bad for not being there this time when it happens.

He's been in Turin for most of this month trying to help the city's museums co-ordinate their collections with Milan and Rome for a rich exhibition in a few weeks, so it's hard for him to gauge when exactly Romano's mood changed. All he knows is that when he opens the front door after a lot of travelling, Veneziano is met with a freshly swept floor, dusted shelves of historical trinkets, and the smell of cigarette smoke.

Romano smokes whenever he's stressed about something, or when he's in a mood. But he only cleans when it's a mood so that solves the question and only leaves the problem.

"Hey." He finds his brother at the other end of the city dwelling and up on the second floor: he's on the balcony looking down the Roman hill where their house is placed on the slope. It's a Sunday but Romano is wearing a pressed white shirt and black slacks, his tie undone but hanging around his neck: all signs that he's been to church this morning, which is normal and therefore a good sign.

"Hey, how was Turin?" But the way he turns around with something missing in his green eyes and drawing the colour from his straight cheeks says something else, his long face all hard angles without the dismissal or apathy of his normal personality.

"It was wonderful: the weather's really great this time of year!" Forcing cheer on the situation won't help a whole lot, but Veneziano can still try. "Why don't we go out? Have you had lunch?"

"You're still carrying your suitcase." Is he? North Italy drops it on the hall floor and waves his hands to show it's nothing. "It's fine. I don't really feel like- going out." There's a catch in his voice, mild like the way his low voice just rumbles along without rising or falling, the spice of his words turning mellow as he looks back out over the city. Romano shifts a little bit so he's leaning on the corner of the little balcony, not turning his back on Veneziano but still paying more attention to the skyline. The cigarette he could smell but not see finally makes an appearance between his brother's fingers, and with a slow inhale he takes the smoke into his lungs and holds it there.

"How about I make us something to eat then?" He's exhausted from travelling all day, but he makes the offer anyways just to try and see how bad things are under the surface.

"Sure, if you like." Having Romano agree and not make a bid for one of his own meals is a bad sign, but not as troubling as: "I'm not sure what's still good in the fridge, but go for it."

Veneziano has been away from home for almost two weeks.

Whatever's wrong with his brother, they both know, has been going on for much longer than that.

* * *

Romano has always been close with Spain, but this is one of the few times when Veneziano knows he can't call the Spaniard into things.

He also doesn't want to, but that's beside the point: Spain can't help. In fact, he would probably just make Romano's mood worse.

Romano's mood _should_ be a good thing: he's much quieter at work and at home, more diligent about getting his paperwork done, and handles more and more housework in his off hours. These should all be very obvious pluses in Veneziano's day, things he should steal away like candies and be happy with, but he's not.

Because he _knows_ his brother, and as much of a dick as Romano can be sometimes, this isn't like him.

"Let's go for a walk!"

"I don't really feel like it…"

"I'll order us some pizza!"

"Go for it, but I'm not hungry."

He doesn't eat, and he won't cook; Veneziano leaves a small cluster of vine-ripened tomatoes in their kitchen and comes back from work a few days later to find one of them rotten and the others in their fridge. A portion of his brother's favourite pasta and sauce is left on the table to dry out over-night. Romano sleeps through their entire weekend and doesn't even set foot downstairs.

He just sleeps, showers, and smokes.

He shaves off two days' of scruff on Monday morning and goes to work, silent and barely even there while they file and stamp and fill out mountains of paperwork in their office, desks attached and the younger brother unable to break the older one's silence.

Pissing him off doesn't work either, because Veneziano's every word just transforms into water running down his brother's back. He knows Romano isn't trying to ignore him, but it's awful when another week passes and North Italy starts to feel the paranoia of isolation creeping up on him: he needs his brother back.

Another weekend and after a failed attempt to watch a movie together (Romano's eyes were on the screen, but he didn't make one wise-crack or get at all invested in the plot the way he usually does), Veneziano makes one more attempt to fix the problem himself.

"Let me sleep next to you tonight!"

"Uh, okay."

Romano doesn't grumble or complain about it, and when they both climb under the covers and Veneziano is quick to wrap his arms around his brother's back, head resting between Romano's shoulder blades, his other half doesn't shove him away with a curse or a swear. None of this complacency is like him, just like it takes Romano so much longer to fall asleep than it should… Enough so that Veneziano probably falls asleep first.

Maybe he will have to call Spain. That's what North Italy is left thinking when he wakes up slowly the next morning because he feels too hot.

And he's too hot because in his sleep Romano has given up a little bit and tried to find what he needs to stop the pain he won't let rise to the surface. Veneziano can feel one of his brothers' arms underneath him and wrapped around his waist, the other one over his shoulder with a hand holding the back of his head close to Romano's throat and face against his skin. The grip is tense and the hold unbearably hot because South Italy's body feels inflamed. Despite the fact that he's still breathing deeply, his body is shaking so hard inside that Veneziano returns the hug that isn't meant for him. He closes his eyes again after kicking some of his blankets off and stays exactly where he is.

When Romano wakes up an hour later there's such an offended look on his strained face that he almost seems betrayed. Veneziano doesn't have to say anything, in fact they both just quietly agree to remain silent about the whole thing, and maybe North Italy really will have to call Spain to try and talk to him.

So he swallows his pride and tries it. He calls Spain from a small cafe Romano didn't want to join him at for their lunch hour, using work as an excuse and eventually seguing into the problem. For about five minutes, Spain sounds deeply concerned and earnest about coming to Rome immediately to comfort someone whose relationship with Romano is none of Veneziano's honest business. Romano and Spain's relationship is a big grey area for him and he doesn't enjoy talking about it, but he likes it even less when something clicks over the phone.

_"Wait, is it one of __**those** moods?_" He wasn't even aware Spain knew the difference, but the sudden drop in the other nation's voice makes him pause and try to muddle through what he hears next. "_How did you let it get this bad?_"

"I was out of town when it started, I came back and he was already completely out of it."

_"Heh, well I'm still not the one he wants to see: he made that very clear the last time I tried helping. You know what's wrong so you'll have to fix it yourself."_ And then the call ends.

It's hard to make Spain's temper short enough to hang up like that on someone, especially Italy of all people. It means he was right about Spain not being able to help, but more importantly shows that Romano's already been like this with his former mentor before, and whatever happened between them hurt their relationship.

So the only thing left to do is the last thing he wants to do: cut open the wound and force Romano to suck the poison out himself.

He doesn't go back to work after lunch because Romano will be productive enough for both of them. Instead he goes home and packs one of his brothers' suitcases, and he books a small flight as well, one-way, because it will be up to Romano to decide when he wants to come home.

A fresh pack of cigarettes and a quiet evening are waiting for South Italy when he comes home, and he doesn't even bring up the fact that North skipped out on work. If he's cautious about the offering of tobacco, he doesn't show it as he takes the last stick out of the pack already in his pocket and lights up in their living room, sinking into the arm-chair next to the couch, across from where Veneziano is already sitting with a glass of wine.

And they just sit like that, wallowing in the silence that's filled their office and their home for weeks, because Veneziano can keep the naive hope alive that his brother will snap out of his melancholy, and Romano is still lost in his own little world and won't come back out on his own.

Finally…

"When was the last time you saw her?"

Romano's embers are bright when Veneziano asks the question, but the smouldering end of the cigarette goes black with his lips still on the filter when the words register for him. It takes three, four seconds before the smoke starts flowing back out between his lips and nostrils.

"A long time."

"Guess?"

He won't get mad talking about this, because it's the only time he'll mention it- mention _her. _But Romano does try to use silence, and he does his very best to just sit there without speaking and not answer.

"Romano." Veneziano won't let him get away with it.

"New millennium." Thirteen years then. It isn't the longest gap in history, it isn't even a full generation, but it's enough. "You know, just in case." Just in case the world had ended. Just in case he'd been forced to decide who the last person he'd ever see would be.

Veneziano isn't insulted by not being the person Romano was scared of never seeing again. He knows his brother too well to be offended.

And besides, whatever happened between them has taken thirteen years to make his brother think about her like this again.

"Do you still love her?"

Romano doesn't bite back by saying the question is bullshit or that he doesn't give a fuck. He doesn't mention Spain with whom he has something that would be real love if not for these moods of his that change and hurt him in a way Veneziano can't stand to watch. Romano just finishes his cigarette and reaches for the new pack to get another one. While South smokes, North drinks his wine and waits for the next bitter lines of conversation to fade out through the smoke.

"I still miss her."

Several more minutes of silence follow, not because there's nothing to fill it with, but because Veneziano can see the way Romano's eyes are out of focus. The pain is making a push for recognition, trying to force its way out of him and into the air between them, but his brother is stubborn and continues to hold it back, to beat and bury it away so it can't rampage just once and then fade away until next time.

Finally, when North Italy's prayers fall on deaf ears again and his brother regains full control without giving in and letting the demons pass, he stands up slowly and leaves his wine glass on the table. Reaching into his jacket's inner pocket as he walks over to his brother's chair, Veneziano pulls out the folded print-out of his brother's plane ticket and holds it out to him.

"Your flight leaves tomorrow morning. I'll drive you."

And Romano just stares at the paper with its information and bar-codes. He doesn't get angry, and he doesn't get offended. He doesn't try to play it off as something else or make up a reason for why this is stupid. He just takes it and he holds it in his hand, until finally he whispers one more time:

"Thank you."

* * *

**Leave a review? I haven't used the words "Prologue" and "Epilogue" for a while, but the rest of the story will be from Romano's point of view. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter One

**Trail of the Angels.**

**I forgot to mention yesterday, but this piece is a Prologue, three chapters and an Epilogue. I've finished everything except the epilogue so that's the only part people might have to wait for! Chapter length does, however, fluctuate quite a bit.**

* * *

_**Unrequited**_

Chapter 1

The thing that bugs Romano is that he should know better. It's been over two thousand years but he still makes exactly the same mistakes and carries the exact same burdens with him.

It was one of the blessings of being a child for so long, actually, because it wasn't the same kind of affliction. He'd wanted to be friends, he'd wanted to be stronger, he'd wanted them to get along the way they had before their grandfather had died.

And he'd gone about it in shitty ways even before Spain had showed up on his shores. Princes with unsavoury motives, treaties he'd agreed to in a flash only to realize he couldn't uphold them, mandates from the church, invasions from other nations, his complete inability to speak without shoving his foot in his god-damned mouth around her.

He knew why she hated him. He knows why she still hates him, why she'll do anything at all to undermine and embarrass him. He gets it.

They were married once and it was everything and nothing he'd ever wanted. They'd married once their faces had changed to reflect French wars and the process of industrialization, because their king had decided he wanted his two kingdoms joined to one throne by marriage instead of circling each other as siblings: peninsula and island, Naples and Sicily.

They'd almost made it work, Romano had _almost_ convinced Sicily to trust him, almost showed her that he wasn't as terrible as all of his faults implied. He'd very nearly proved himself to her, almost been allowed to take her hand and hold her to him and ask, plead, _beg _her: _"Love me__,__ just a little bit."_

Almost, but then the Unification wars started up again and… well, of course she'd betrayed him. Of course her men had refused to fight off a northern invasion: it wasn't like she'd ever wanted to stand that close to him in the first place. If the technology every comes along to physically move her island, Sicily will drop herself in the middle of the Pacific just to get away from him…

It's only thanks to basic survival instincts that they didn't both die when the Italian Kingdom was founded. A lot of their family members died: Genoa, Lombardy, Tuscany, Sardinia… Veneziano would have destroyed Naples and Sicily if given the chance, not because his little brother is especially cruel, but because that's just what it means to consolidate a kingdom.

Romano still isn't sure, even over a hundred and fifty years after the fact, why he fought so hard to stay alive. Maybe it was because his Roman blood wouldn't surrender, or maybe he'd kept fighting because he'd known what would happen to Sicily if every one of her allies was dead, and what Veneziano would have done if Romano hadn't risen up as a tactical, patriotic equal to match him and maintain southern identity.

He doesn't like thinking about it.

He hated those decades between Unification and the first world war, those years where his ex-wife had known how much she owed him and Romano himself had been so bitter and hurt over that first betrayal to deal with her. She'd exiled herself to the countryside on her island, far away from her cities and his coastline, and stayed there in shame and silence for years.

He hadn't seen her again until the war- the Great War, the one that changed everything. The one that gave him a gun and a trench and put her under a red cross to provide relief and aid to their soldiers as they died. They hadn't even fought in his territory: the lines had all been carved across Veneziano and Austria, Germany and Switzerland and Hungary bleeding out while the Balkans were set on fire and Belgium and France breathed rot and famine. The fighting hadn't even taken place in South Italy, but Romano can't remember a time before that where his body had hurt _so much…_

_"Help me, just a little bit…"_ He'd begged, bullet-riddled with limbs rotting off. They'd found him half-buried in the mud three days after a failed charge somewhere. She'd been at the camp where he was taken, the place where he was denied morphine because there were dying men who needed it more and an immortal nation could just heal in his own shit and vomit.

So her argument had been that her immortal hands were better off making sure national flesh was cleaned and not forced to fuse with the filth covering exposed bones and rotten skin. No painkillers, but her own alcohol poured past his mutilated lips to confuse his mind and give him sleep. Her harsh voice to cover the cries and screams of the dead and dying, the sweetness of her black arabesque hair and the gentle wind of fast Latin verse to mask the stench of his body purging itself of every vile and decrepit sign of war.

He'd cried and he'd wailed for her like a child for days until it was almost over and his body tried to stand. She didn't leave him, wouldn't waver from his side despite how she'd fought a century earlier to stay away from him. And God he'd loved her so much for it…

Romano had courted her after the war, love-sick and earnest. Children from all over his territories left him in waves of emigrants searching for America- but she was part of him too, she'd felt his pain too. So she'd let him bring her flowers and she made a habit of coming to Rome to meet with North and South in their house.

Sometimes, when Romano doesn't want to think about her, he remembers the cheap bread she used to make during the Depression with birdseeds and a little bit of sand in the dough to make it heavier in the stomach. When he found himself in uniform again under their Boss's command, he still remembers the tattered cotton scarf with pink roses stitched on the side that would appear in a messenger's hands.

The faded colours wrapped around small loaves of fresh bread he'd had to fight Veneziano off to keep his brother from eating, the same handkerchief he returned every time- but only after finding something, anything, worth putting inside. A box of chocolates, a bottle of perfume, one time a string of pearls he scrimped for a month on his officer's salary to afford.

And God he'd_loved her…_

But he'd been such a fool to think that maybe, that time, he'd done it right. Believing that maybe she'd finally loved him too…

Because maybe she'd just been scared of what their boss would have done to her without him for protection. The way he'd raged against the Axis when her island was captured by the Allies had only broken him a little more when he defected with Veneziano's blood on his hands. He'd done it for her and-

And, of course when Canada told him in such an earnest way that he never would have harmed Sicily the way England had threatened, that had calmed Romano down. But…

But the way he'd said _"Without her help the whole Italian Campaign would have stalled in North Africa, we owe her everything."_ That…

Just that… idea… The information that had passed along and the shadow it cast on everything; the bitterness of bread leavened with dirt, the faulty munitions from Sicilian factories. So many visits to Rome, idle conversation about the military, the Axis, the soldiers…

The way he'd fallen for it all over again: her attack and capture dragging him to the invader's side of another war.

Romano had taken the first boat across the straight to get himself off of her island. He hadn't even stayed to see her for more than one brief encounter in the harbour before he left. He kept himself out of the meetings and board-rooms: he spent the rest of the war in the field crippling the Nazis with Partisan efforts. He won his brother back instead and he'd begged Veneziano for forgiveness.

Begged, and _begged_ even when Veneziano told him how much he wished he'd been strong enough that they could have left the Axis together…

He didn't like thinking about it. He still doesn't like thinking about it; a chain of tricks and betrayals spanning centuries and hurting him every time. He hates it so much because Romano should fucking _know_ better but he just keeps falling for it.

Even when he sees Spain at meetings and conferences, someone he can just go away with for a few hours or a few days and not have to think about his politics or policies back home. It's escapism to go after someone who lives across the continent and with whom his history isn't that much better in some ways, but it's still a lot less painful.

He hates thinking about this, he hates thinking about _her_. Being reminded of the stupidity and humiliation, the embarrassment of being out done over and over again because of the same set of charms and lies.

The way she lets her green eyes tear up when he tries to get away from her for his own good, or when she pulls her arms around herself and just seems to shrink and reduce herself to a sorry, apologetic shadow that just wants his forgiveness when he's mad at her. The way she knows just how to enter a room so all eyes are drawn to her, bold strides that beat any soldier's march while wrapped in silk and lace like a true Mediterranean queen. A queen he's tried again and _again_ to make his own, but it just won't work…

And he loves her…

_"Attention passengers, the captain has turned on the fasten seat-belt sign__.__P__lease return to your seats as we make our approach into Palermo International Airport."_

But that doesn't mean she loves him too.

* * *

The actual flight takes no more than eighty minutes: Rome to Palermo. He spends more time in the airports themselves than on the actual plane. He could take a taxi but rents a car instead from the airport down into the proper city of Palermo, navigating roads he half-remembers to find the regional government headquarters.

"Mr. South Italy!" He's recognized immediately despite not having been here in so long, ushered through doors where officials shake his hand and updates he doesn't need are given about the government's problems and plans for the future, following up on things discussed in Rome or via telephone and e-mail from Romano's desk to here. He listens because he should, and lingers only because he understands that the woman he's looking for isn't at work today.

Going to her city residence leaves him sitting in the car a block away from the curving side-street that can only be taken on foot. Engine off, sunlight beating on the hood and roof, Romano just sits there with his hands sitting on the wheel and stares blankly at the crest in the middle of the steering column, asking himself what the fuck he's even doing on this island.

He knows better.

He knows _better_, and yet he pops open the door and climbs out in his light grey suit with sunglasses resting in his dark hair. His palms are sweaty and throat tight around every breath as he cuts across the street and vanishes down uneven cobbles and shallow stairs slathered with globs of grey asphalt. He almost wants to trip and fall his way down the hill, turning between a building plastered in red clay and a white-walled barber shop that was a bakery in another lifetime.

The streets get tighter and wind a little more, old lichen and moss on buildings blooming into bushes in the gutter because this city is old enough to be reclaimed- but it won't be because the people still scurry and trample over ancient streets just going about their day. When Romano comes to a high stone wall that's so old every inch of plaster has fallen off and exposed the rounded stones once lifted by a child's hand to place them, he knows he's here.

The black iron gate still has no lock, but the sunken step-stones have vanished under a blanket of cement that cuts across the pebbled ground and twists around a fragile looking lemon tree, fronds and flowers are blooming wildly in their beds and spreading over them, filling the tight little garden with fresh floral scents before South Italy finds the brown door with its flaking white paint. He stops again to look at the bevelled edges and the iron handle with a modern lock set in the middle, hesitantly running his fingertips down the worn, warped metal before pulling back and making a fist.

He should leave, but instead he stands firm and he knocks three times.

And his reward is the awkward, painful silence of an empty house.

He could knock again, maybe even try climbing up a little to see through the crooked window half a story up, but it won't make a difference. She wasn't at work and she isn't home, or if she is home then she'll probably just take one look at his face and slam the door again...

"Hello?"

He wants it to be her voice but it's not; it's young and it's male and when Romano turns around there's a boy maybe twenty years old. His dark hair is tossed to one side because it's long enough for the awkward part, clothes neat and trim with flashy looking white running shoes under black skinny jeans with a printed yellow shirt. Two days worth of black beard on his narrow chin make him look like someone who might be trying a little too hard to mimic the magazine covers, but he leans comfortably on the open iron gate and peers around the tree at Romano, so the nation steps a little closer in the tiny garden to hear him out.

"And you are?"

"One of the neighbours- you're looking for Signorina Vargas?" It's a curse for them to share the same human surname, because it will always make him think of things Romano knows better than to dwell on. "She's out of town for the week, didn't you know?"

"I just arrived from Rome this morning." And he can see it, the sense of curiosity that comes up through green Sicilian eyes and the arrogant tilt of a long face supported by a slender neck. Romano doesn't need some young punk whose age matches his on the outside acting like he knows what's going on on the inside. "I'll be on my way then, thank you."

But he knows it looks bad, showing up unannounced from the capital looking for someone who is away from home. And for all Romano knows the man's suspicion could be generated as much from Sicily's natural distrust for him as from the fact that he's twenty-something and just caught a stranger snooping outside his beautiful young neighbour's house.

But there's no further conflict; Romano leaves the house and neighbourhood without another word, returning to his car where...

He's restless because he can feel the pain again, that sour, twisting sensation in his lungs that he tries to smother with a deep breath of thick smoke from a cigarette. She's not actually avoiding him: she didn't know he was coming and his timing is just shitty as usual.

But he smokes the first cigarette quickly next to his car, letting the sun beat down on his shoulders and head without buckling in the heat. He smokes another one on the short walk to a small deli, picking up a sandwich and something to drink before choosing to eat back in the vehicle instead of at one of the sunny tables.

A third cigarette and the resolve to drive to a place he had no business being finally calm the pain down just enough to let him function. He has no honest idea where she's gone off to: maybe to visit France or Tunisia or Cyprus, maybe she's enjoying herself at Morocco's house, he just doesn't know. But if he's on her island without her then Romano has every right to torture himself a little more in the hopes that it'll beat down this crushing urge to hurt himself all over again.

So he drives faster than he should along highway roads too narrow and winding for his speed, handling the machine aggressively to stop his hands from shaking. Cutting across the island from north-west to south and central takes the rest of his day, so it's getting on in the evening when he reaches a sleepy little village out in an oasis of farmland and rolling hills yellowed by the summer sun. His destination is no more than ten minutes away from the village, but Romano makes himself stop here for the night: the house where he's going will be empty, and driving there will mean driving back to town to find a bed and food.

Really though, he just wants the bed at the little hotel where he checks in. South Italy doesn't even look at the Bed-and-Breakfast's menu, just cracks open the suite window and smokes another two cigarettes, telling himself he doesn't know this village or remember these hills.

It's a long, quiet evening that settles into a restless and tormenting night. He wakes up three times with the memory of her slender, delicate form enveloped in his arms under summer blankets, and finds tears scratching his cheeks when the lingering touch of full lips is just an illusion brought on by exhaustion two hundred years strong.

Dawn is the trigger that finally lets Romano climb out of bed for more than just a brief smoke by the window. The shower washes away more than just sweat, and he angles the stiff, rusting nozzle down to drum tepid water over his shoulders and back, leaning heavily on the shower wall and just letting the water hit him.

He turns the temperature down progressively colder trying to numb away the trembles and shakes invading him from the inside.

When his mind remembers a frantic rainstorm and screaming through the cold wind he jams it all the way to steaming hot and nearly scalds his back.

He just sit there with the water off, naked and dripping and just crumpled on the tile basin with his hands in his wet hair. He doesn't know what he's waiting for, but he waits while his ears ring in the quiet and his skin air-dries in the closed space. Whatever wants to make its escape from him doesn't rise to the challenge though, and once his skin has faded from hot to cold to damp and almost-dry, South Italy regains the strength to stand and slowly dress himself.

He's lost his nerve from last night. Eating is impossible and once he's presentable and in his car Lovino needs another ten minutes to just stare at the dashboard without moving. The engine starts without a problem and he drives through the village, only to stop before he's even left and grip the wheel so hard his hands hurt: north to take him back to Palermo, south to carry him off to his destination.

He goes south and his nerves betray him a third time when anxiety almost twists the car off the road. He has to stop again, get out, and just walk back and forth along the narrow gravel lane.

At one point Romano just falls off the road all together, and he walks. He walks and he refuses to trample the vegetable fields he flounders across, walking for at least an hour until his shoes are caked in mud and the black earth is creeping up to his knees. He just keeps walking under hot sun and over moist soil, horse-shit and chemical fertilizers stinging his nose and polluting his lungs like the cigarettes he can't smoke because his lighter is back in the car.

He just keeps going and prays something in him will break, because he's trampling south and only stops when he runs out of land. He's left on a high hill with a stone wall at the edge of the field, and looking down there's rolling terrain and broken country roads until the Mediterranean's blue face rolls up to meet Sicily's beaches and grottos.

Even the sea can kiss her the way he...

_'Let it out...'_ He'll be healthier for it once it's over with, _'Just... get it...'_ If it would just leave him alone; the pain that creeps up from inside him when it shouldn't. Pain he should be free of because he has no reason to feel this awful about something that should have been settled years ago. Why does it still hurt? Why won't it go away?

Standing here looking down at the sea should release him, or at the very least it should make him turn around and wallow through the mud and grass to find his car again and a change of shoes and pants. But there is no release, and it takes Romano a long, long time to make himself move again.

A ten minute drive takes almost three hours to complete, two for the walking and one for all the stops and starts along the way. Maybe it even takes another one on top for the effort it takes to toss his soiled clothes in a plastic bag in the back seat. In just blue jeans and a white tee-shirt now Romano makes the car roll the final unwilling turns before he finds his destination.

The almond trees tell him he's in the right place, because when the land falls away on one side of the road and the car hugs the curve of the land, he recognizes the wild groves and looks up at the soft, pale green leaves of olive trees growing higher up the slope. When he comes to the white stone wall at the end of the land and the open gate, the car moves under the barricade smoothly. He tells himself he doesn't remember when or how the iron bars were removed back during the liberation...

The house itself is two stories of rose plaster and white edges, red tiles capping the roof of the tall square body and its flanking wings on the east and west sides, like a lady's hands drawn up to try and cover her face. The stone steps that lead up to the main entrance from the courtyard he drives through now are dusty and even from here as he parks he can see the moss growing on their unkempt sides.

Decades ago, centuries maybe, there was a large trellis spanning the steps and running up to the main door for shade in summer. Now there are only fallen beams and gnarled branches turning to dust as summers and winters bleach the vibrant vines white and leave them like chalk lines at a crime scene.

Leaving the car and his luggage behind, Romano looks around at the sealed mouth of the well in the middle of the courtyard, and back at the wall he's just driven under with so many large cracks breaking through it from minor earthquakes and a complete lack of care.

The stables still stand, but there are no horses and the roof, again, from where he's standing he can see where the red tiles have folded in and collapsed under their own weight.

Stepping over gravel and broken tile, Romano moves slowly up the shallow steps, stopping when he notices how a path has been cleared through the worst of the trellis' debris, and recently too if the way the wooden beams are still piled up in defiance of the breeze are any indication. Looking up at the house however, signs are dim:

Cracked and broken windows, the shadow of tattered curtains swaying behind them as the sun hides its bashful face behind a sudden string of clouds. What had once done its very best to be a home is now abandoned and in ruin, and the reality of it is so fitting that South Italy finds himself stranded in the middle of it.

It's like an echo of everything he's been thinking about and feeling for these last several months, and it hurts him.

Because he built that trellis.

And he trained and worked those horses.

And he defended that gate... once... a long time ago.

He should have known better than to come to a place like this, and now that he's here South Italy just wants to run back home. He and his foolish memories aren't welcome here.

"Lovino?"

At least... that's what he needs to keep telling himself.

"S-Stay there! I'll be right down."

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**Comment? See you guys tomorrow with the next installment!**


	3. Chapter Two

**Took me a while, sorry! I just had a really full few days.**

* * *

**_Unrequited_**

Chapter Two

"S-Stay there! I'll be right down!"

Romano stops as he's told and just stares up. For a moment his world holds its breath, like maybe he's got it bad enough to start hearing things, but that was definitely her voice. Just the way it cut through the gentle sound of the wind and the far off trill of birds beyond the villa walls, he knows. His world still feels grey with debris scattered at his feet and cracked, dusty stones propping him up, but South Italy stands there and he waits.

On the face of the house there's a stone balcony projecting out and providing an ample view of the courtyard. That's where the voice came from, and Romano can just barely see the white curtains blowing in the doorway where the sound vanished. He didn't actually see the speaker, but somewhere behind stone walls he can hear footsteps, and he already heard her voice.

He doesn't know what possessed her to call him by that personal name, or why she didn't just shout at him to demand why he's here and that he leave immediately, but before Romano can take the initiative and run away, she's there.

The heavy wooden door makes a painful, unwilling sound as it grinds its old hinges and is forced to swing in, so the first thing Romano sees are her hands as Sicily grasps at the dark wood and wrenches it back so she has enough space to slide out into view.

The sun returns as soon as she steps outside, and the two together blind him for just a moment until she speaks.

"What are you doing here?" She's... filthy, actually.

"I- uh..."

The former nation of Sicily is not a tall woman, but her head comes up comfortably past his shoulder so she isn't incredibly tiny either. The waves of her thick, tousled black hair are subdued right now by both a messy braid and a red handkerchief tied over her head- one that's covered in dust and filth like the smears of grey on her straight cheeks. Like him her face is too long to be considered _'heart-shaped'_, but she has the wide brow and narrow chin that otherwise make it work. Her skin, again, like his is also darker than Veneziano's up north, but Romano is a shade or two darker despite spending so much of his time in Rome.

He's not close enough for the sea green of her eyes or the thick fan of her eyelashes to grab his attention, it's more like Romano is about to shrivel up under his clothes because he's not used to catching her like this.

Sicily isn't wearing a dress, a gown, a business suit, or haute couture. She isn't dripping in pearls and gold like a queen or wrapped in linen and hemp for hard peasant work in her fields. It's the twenty-first century and he shouldn't be so stumped by it, but he's never seen his ex-wife in denim over-alls and a stained tee-shirt before so he just needs a god-damned minute to get his head back on straight.

She isn't very tall, and she isn't very large, but the dusty, torn, rudely stained blue cover-alls hanging from her shoulders just make Sicily look _tiny_ in front of him. A warm dart in the gut tells him it's cute: it's _extremely_ cute because it's like a child going through her father's clothes to find something ugly to wear. They're probably the right size for her like the dusty work-boots that have swallowed her feet, but Romano has to look away completely with a hand up over part of his face to stop the smile.

"Uh..." he's not coming up with any words, the warmth in him is spreading and it won't have any of his foolish thoughts right now. It distracts him the way the pain does, urging him to stay quiet and just feel this way for a moment.

"Lovino?"

"You're busy, I should leave." Leave before he does what he always does and says something awful. The warmth in him starts to burn when he chances a look back at her grime-speckled face and Sicily's green eyes are narrowing, her entire expression darkening with what's either suspicion or annoyance.

"How did you know I was here?"

"I didn't." His honesty makes her take a moment and stop, sculpted black brows coming down slightly and showing she either doesn't believe him, or doesn't understand. "I'm sorry for trespassing, and I'll go now-"

"Wait. How often do you come here?" There's confrontation in her voice, which isn't unheard of because Sicily doesn't have a soft or sweet way of using words. Her voice is harsh, sometimes grating. "Without _telling_ me?"

"I don't." Romano almost snaps back that, as South Italy he doesn't need permission to visit an abandoned villa on Sicily's south coast, but he minds himself at just the right moment and keeps dangerous words at bay. "I drove this way for the memories, alright?"

"What memories?" That...

A quiet falls over them and Romano just... stands there. He feels the way the warmth in his belly starts burning and creeping up into his lungs, and the way it's now turning into sour bile and pain again in his chest. The comfort is gone because she's giving him that distrustful glare, and the way her voice hardens to spit out those words... Heh, what did he expect?

Not for her face to change- it almost surprises him when the glare drops unexpectedly and her eyes widen across the space between them, full pink lips losing their rigid and half-disgusted sneer and fall open around a quick breath.

South Italy just lifts both hands slowly, palms out and one foot stepping back. He stops looking at her and lets his eyes land on the rubbish of a fallen trellis instead, giving up and backing down.

"I'm going," he practically whispers.

"Lovino wait," the sigh that chases him from the open door isn't enough to stop him from turning around and taking the shallow steps back down to the gravel court. "Naples!"

No one calls him that anymore, and maybe that's why Romano stops when he hears it. That, and he can hear her footsteps scuffling the ground and knocking against those dry beams and bleached vines.

"I'm sorry, that was cruel." It's not like her to apologize for something, at least not that fast. Romano can see his escape because his car isn't parked much further from him, but he stands there instead and just tries not to turn around and look at her. "You once lived here too..."

"Not like that means anything." He just wants the pain to ease up a little, and maybe speaking will help him get his way as Romano gives a rough, agitated half-turn so he's looking at her as much as the collapsed stables. In fact, that just gets him looking around even more, because now his temper has something more productive to latch on to. "This place doesn't look like it's been lived in for at least half a century."

"More than that." She's staring at the pieces of broken trellis under her feet as she says that, hitting a dry, thin piece of wood with her boot and touching her dirty face with the thick fingers of one work-glove. "Not since the soldiers left in '47."

Romano doesn't answer that statement, he can't think of one. Instead they just stand there in silence and it still hurts him to be here, but it hurts even more because she isn't making him leave. In fact...

"Come inside; there's food. It's a lot cooler too." She won't let him.

And Romano should know better than to agree.

But he doesn't.

The inside of the villa matches the outside: decrepit and falling apart. The ghostly memories of a staircase rising to the second floor in the main foyer are framed by the stone foundation and a few collapsed beams protruding from the pile of molded timber. The patterns of white and red marble on the floor are obscured by dust and grit, the stones scuffed and cracked with few signs of sweeping or care since her arrival. He wants to ask how long she's been here trying to clean, but instead Lovino just follows her through what was once a pleasant drawing room, then a sun-room with its wide windows cracked and broken, the carpets nothing but shrivelled remains bleached by years of the moving sun.

The villa is large on the outside, but like most old buildings she's much smaller on the inside: thick stone walls take up space, and the need to support the levels above took priority during construction. This is not the typical way to reach the kitchen: something must be blocking the proper series of hallways and sharp turns leading that way, because this route is winding and almost random through the smell of dust and over more broken beams and collapsing walls. He doesn't even know they're heading for the kitchen until they arrive.

"Here, sit."

The old kitchen table must be over four hundred years old by now, strong and sturdy as ever: and the first relatively clean thing Romano has seen so far. There are several plastic and metal tool boxes on it now, a small propane stove holding a camping kettle made for coffee or tea. Blankets and a sleeping bag are set up in the corner of the kitchen where the preserve jars were once kept, and there are binders with paperwork laid out next to the makeshift bed.

Lovino is directed to a plastic lawn chair and asked to sit despite the filth, something he does while still slowly looking around and taking in the sights surrounding him.

"Where are you getting the money for all this?" Materials, time off work, labour too because eventually she'll have to hire more hands to haul away those beams and fallen stones. He watches her pull off the heavy gloves on her hands and tuck them into the side of her coveralls, griming up the edge of the red tee-shirt she's wearing as her fingertips play with the dials and knobs on the propane stove. Once it's lit there's weight to the kettle as she lifts it up, telling him there's already plenty of water inside for whatever she's making.

"It's my own." She answers, not looking at him but keeping anything of note out of her voice. "This is still a Vargas property, so even though I could qualify for a grant there are more important things to spend it on." Their economy is not the kind for heritage projects and cultural protection, Romano understands this as he leans one elbow on the arm of his chair and rests his head on his curled knuckles. He doesn't want to talk about work right now: he just wants to speak to her.

"I half expected you to release the rights after the war." They both know which war: the one that left maps of the Italian peninsula pinned to the walls. An old crate with the black stamp _U.S-ARMY_ is still poking its face out from a corner of the collapsed kitchen.

"Like I told you, I haven't been back here since then." She's just watching the pot boil, digging out a chipped mug from a bin under the table and setting it down before looking for a thermos cup to hold a second portion. Obviously she wasn't planning for two when she came here.

"Why the change?" She won't look at him. Romano refuses to let the pain get to him again, but she won't _look_ at him.

The water in the kettle finally starts rolling and Sicily is too preoccupied with lifting it off the heat to answer him. A small plastic bag yields a small bundle of tea, and she holds it over the mug as the water is poured in. She doesn't let it steep for more than a few seconds before pulling the leaves out and dunking them in the thermos cup instead, and Romano doesn't look around or ask for sugar as he stands up and accepts the cup she hands him. It's too hot for tea, but he takes it and silently asks why she won't turn her face towards him.

Stupid thoughts start filtering into his brain, the same wants and wishes and whims from across the last thousand years whispering to him softly. To place his hand on her shoulder and down her arm, to circle her with both arms and draw her in against him; to just graze her chin with his finger and maybe tilt her lips towards his. All without words so many different wants overwhelm him, a thousand gestures or tender ways to ask what's wrong and offer himself up again for another plunging stab of betrayal.

It's a sickness and a cancer as he burns his tongue on the hot tea, watching her just stand there with eyes down holding the little metal cup between both dainty, dirt-stained hands. Standing this close to her, Romano just wants to bend down on both knees and hug her around the legs. Or maybe he would kiss her hair and whisper the need to know what's wrong, to ask if he can help.

He can see her and sense how close she is to him now- or how far away. Now he just wants more of her voice, he's parched and digging through hot sand trying to find that melody like a summer breeze, aching for the bridge of her nose to rest and fit against the curve of his throat. He needs her to look at him, because he doesn't realize how blinding the pain is until there's the scalding splash of hot-tea over his hand from his rough attempt to put it down.

The cold touch of a damp cloth on his skin, sopping up the tea and cooling the burn before it can form, is followed all too soon by a shaking breath and the voice he wants in a tone he can't handle.

"If you just came here to be mad at me then leave."

She says that, but it isn't just a rag over his fingers, it's her hand pressing it down and holding onto him so he doesn't immediately pull back. He does try to get away, but it's half-hearted: he wants to feel her grip on his wrist, the way she needs both hands to hold one of his.

"I'm not mad," he answers, watching as the pain quickly fades until it's just warmth fighting off the chill of the rag. It's so hard not to take her hand that he gives up, reaches out, and before she can jerk away from him Lovino has his fingers wrapped around hers and is desperate to hold on. The words that should come next don't come together, and the fight that should take their place, for whatever reason, is put on hold as they both just stand there like that, hands together.

It's tense and that's what makes it awful. She's staring at their hands and he's looking at her, trying to piece together a thousand things from jokes and wishes to offers and pleas. Just look at him, just let him hold her hand like this, just step closer to him, speak to him, _look at him…_

Her hand and arm are rigid, it's obvious that she wants him to let go but he won't do it. It's better this way and he knows it, because like this Lovino gets to touch her for a few precious moments, and after another breath he knows her temper will rise up and fortify her against him. It doesn't make it hurt any less, but it's better this way.

"I just need to hear you say it, Chiara." He wants to say her name slower than that, let it linger on his tongue and feel his voice relax around the sound. His ears are starting to ring a little bit, a side effect of the stress begging what's about to happen not to happen. "And then I'll leave you alone again, probably for the next twenty years this time if I can help it." Just like the thirteen that just passed between them; a chunk of time that feels like a blink of an eye for nations, especially ones as old as they are.

She looks at him, almost without meaning to but then before her eyes fall again she brings her head up properly. Her green eyes are lighter than his, at least that's what everyone says. The last time they posed for a picture together was before colour film, and comparing photos from different places and different lighting isn't a good judge at all. Veneziano says hers are lighter though, pale like new grass unfurling under the spring sun whereas Romano's are more like lush fronds and vines in late summer. One thing he's always going to trust Veneziano for is colours, so when fresh grass and virgin green look up at him Romano just wants to touch her.

Place his palm against her cheek, run his fingers back through her messy, braided hair, cup her heart-shaped face between his hands and touch his lips to the sweat stains on her forehead. He wants to touch her and he doesn't want to hear what she's going to say anymore, his heart is trying to fight off the lie meant to tear down the wall and let thirteen years of heartache wash the rest of him away. A natural flood of pain and the knowledge that he's simply never going to be what she wants, a cleansing fire of watching his other half do everything to divorce herself from him…

"What do you want me to say?" So he just holds her hand, trying so hard not to clutch it tight and just lets her ask her question. He wants to hear her voice, over wine or too-hot tea or food: have her talk to him and say anything even if it isn't particularly kind or well-meant. The only thing he doesn't want is what he's about to ask for, because it's going to ruin the illusion that her stress is already pulling apart.

He makes himself smile at the question, and he knows it's fake because he knows the way her round eyes dip down to his chin and then swing their way up again to find his. He knows the uncertainty, the suspicion, and the lingering sense of something else: that shadow of distrust that finally, agonizingly, makes his hands slowly lower hers, let go, and woodenly retreat to his pockets to hide the shaking.

He smiles a little harder and tells himself not to cry:

"I just need you to remind me about how it was always a lie." Instead he almost chokes on the violent stab of ice that drills through his chest. "Our marriage and Veneziano's kingdom. Just tell me what I already know."

Romano just wants to scream.

"Just tell me how you still hate me."

And the look on her face almost destroys him.

* * *

**Comment? Next chapter tomorrow or the day after, I should think!**


	4. Chapter Three

**I KEPT FORGETTING I'M SORRY**

* * *

**_Unrequited_**

Chapter Three

"Hate you," she repeats, and that's it.

Chiara is still standing in front of him, still looking at him the way Romano's thoughts were begging, but there's something different and it spoils everything the way he needs it to rot and fall away. Her eyes are wide, wider than normal and staring up at him, a tickle running under them and quivering down her cheeks where her jaw is locked and her pouted pink lips are drawn thin. She isn't supposed to look pale, but in another age he'd ask if she doesn't need to sit down before fainting away.

He doesn't know what her hands are doing, the furthest down his eyes can go is to the heave of her chest before her voice rips his attention back up.

He braces and-

"Hate you!" And it's- not-? "Of course! Of course that's all you're after: hate and love! That's all it is with you and I should have known!"

The anger is what he expects, that lash that cuts across his chest and leaves a smouldering burn before she turns away from him with both hands tossed in the air. But this is what's different: the way she retreats.

"God forbid it be anything else!"

"Chiara-"

"No! Of course I hate you!" Her voice is shrill, it usually runs that way when she's upset but- this is the wrong kind of upset. Her hands open up one of the metal cases laying on the table and then slam it shut with barely a look inside. Her heavy boots kick up the dirt on the floor and the next box gets shoved to the floor with an incredible bang that covers her next words.

"Chiara!" There's a rhythm here that he knows, and that's why when Romano pulls his hands out of his pockets to grab and stop her, he knows the slap is coming and takes her by the wrist when she whips around to swear at him. "I didn't come all this way to fight with you!"

He honestly didn't, but with her wrist in one hand and the other grabbing her over the elbow to stop her from aiming a punch into his ribs, South Italy has Sicily backing up until she digs her heels into the dirty floor to stop the advance.

"No, you just came to sneak around like a roach on my island!"

"I don't have to sneak _anywhere!_" He's her voice in Rome and on the world stage, he doesn't _need-_ "And I went to your damned house first!"

"Uninvited!" She shoves him back and breaks his hold, so the next thing Romano feels are her hands jabbing him in the shoulder and then swiping at his face as he backs up. The table stops him by ramming into his hip and almost sending him to the floor, but he stays up.

"Looking for you!" And he fights with her again for control, trying to stop her attacks by grappling with her hands until his elbows come up just to ward her away.

"Looking for a fight!"

"_NO!_"

That puts a stop to it, or at least a pause. Romano is braced on the table still and Chiara is a few steps away, both of them panting in the hot, dusty air with fresh sweat forming and the summer heat beating down on the house over their heads.

But god, if he has to make it so obvious for her then he should just leave now. Instead he sees her wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist and has to acknowledge the burning in his own. He can't leave, they aren't finished yet.

So, panting with a mouthful of dust, he just says it:

"I love you."

"_Stop."_

"I'm trying!" And when she interrupts him he shouts back, ripping his eyes away to stare at the dust floating through panels of sunlight from the broken window, or the footprints in the layer of grime over what was once a polished floor. "I've been trying for- for too long, Chiara, I've been trying not to, or to just stop all together!"

"Try harder!"

"_Help me!_"

Why is she crying? Why is she acting like this hurts when at worst it's just awkward for her? He's not here trying to convince her again, he's not looking for another chance to have his heart exposed and cut into just like before. He wants this to stop just as much as she does and he can't handle being made to do it alone.

But she's crying. Damn she's good at trying not to show it, but he can see the beads of water that she shakes off before looking at him, the damp shine under her eyes that cuts away the dirt of her labours.

"Just tell me the truth and I'll leave." And he means it. He isn't sure how far he'll get in a night and day with the words still ringing and the wounds bleeding out, but if she says it and she means it then he'll go away. Twenty years- maybe even longer if she can free him, break him out of these chains and cut off the lies that keep him tethered to her shores.

Somehow though, the silence stretches. For some reason the words he's waiting for won't come. He's watching her stand there, ignoring her tears now but still silent, smothered by the wet shine over her green eyes that make them glisten as she looks at the floors and the walls and the filth and finally at him. He just can't take his eyes off of her, but hers move like oil over water, skimming away from him before they even have a chance to settle.

When her voice comes back, it's so fragile it almost hurts.

"The truth that… that I hate you?" Why is she asking _questions? _But she asks him with a deep sound in her throat, her head tilting to the side to shake another tear free before her lips purse and she straightens up again. She speaks again: "That I... hate this house you built so much that I'm fixing it up again?" Don't say things like that... "How I hate the stables where you once kissed me and-"

"Chiara-"

"And how the bed that's still upstairs where we would make love?" Don't say things like this: don't lie to him again like this. Please, for the love of god don't _hurt_ him again like this…

She's watching him and now it's his turn to look away, one hand up over his eyes to shield him as he looks at the floor instead. He knows she isn't crying anymore, he just can't understand why she won't spare him the simple courtesy of brevity and cut with accuracy, not passion.

"Me and how many others?" Take out his heart: just leave his lungs and kidneys alone. If he has to fight back then he will, mustering his strength and dropping his hand to glare at her again where she's still standing apart from him. "Is that how you kept Spain placated for so long despite your schemes? Letting England have at you for the sake of the Liberation?"

"Two hundred years and you still won't forgive me!"

"Because eight decades ago you did it again!" They aren't even speaking anymore, as soon as he says it they just start screaming. "You were a spy! You were a double-agent all along and you're the reason I put a knife in Veneziano's back and left him for dead!"

"I was trying to save you!"

"You don't even _like_ me!"

"_Of course I do!" _No-

They're closer to each other now, almost enough to touch but the sudden flash of terror through Romano's mind keeps him frozen with his hands at his sides, tears moving freely and matching the ones streaming down her face.

"You're my brother!" Not like this. "You're my neighbour! My friend!" Don't say- "You're the first person I ever met after mother and you've always been better to me than Phoenicia or Carthage- Tunis and Malta and Crete and _everyone else!_" No, no, no…! "I married you when I married no one else! England? France? _Spain? No!_ I married you! I joined _you!_"

No, she'd joined Sardinia. He wants to say it, he wanted to scream to the heavens the facts of history that they both knew so well- but he can't. He can't speak their dead sister's name and he can't stop Sicily's siren song of a voice as it screams at him with tears like pieces of star-fire dripping from her eyes. His defenses are shot and he can feel the walls crashing down, feel the dam cracking and knows he's lost: ruined all over again.

"Don't-"

"There have been times when I've hated you, Lovino Vargas; Kingdom of Naples; Republic of Italy!" She won't stop, and he only has himself to blame. "There have been decades and _centuries_ when I have not been able to _look at you!_" But he's going to scream. He's going to scream until his body turns to ash and he can escape the way her eyes are flashing and her lips peeling back, "But for every moment I've spent hating you-" No. "there's always been one more where I've-"

_No! _

_"-Loved you!"_

She kills him.

She lies.

It's a lie.

A lie.

A lie.

_... But he believes it…_

"Now get off my island, and never come back to this place again." _He believes it, the fool, he believes her… the toxins soaking into his flesh and poisoning his heart so it burns as it rends itself to pieces… _"If I ever see you on these grounds again, Lovino I'll burn it to the bedrock and salt the earth so deeply you'll be able to smell its stench across the strait." _He's going to die, he's going to melt into the earth and become nothing but a memory: anything to escape this moment, this __**pain…**_

"Now go."

_He dies…_

_-.-_

**The Epilogue has not been completed yet, and it may take some time to come around. However, at least I got their encounter finished!**

**Sadly, the name stands: this is an unrequited love.**


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